


Fire and Ice

by DarylDixonGrimes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Aaron and Daryl, Basically AU bc no Eric, Because I can't hurt Eric, But smut, M/M, Smut, They bang, bottom!daryl, but not like you're probably thinking after reading that tag, daaron, mild AU, misuse of frozen treats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 22:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3954553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarylDixonGrimes/pseuds/DarylDixonGrimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wanted to experiment with Daaron, so I did. Basically this is an AU where everything is the same minus Eric, because I ship Daaron, but only under the condition that Eric doesn't get hurt because he is a precious adorable butterfly and that's not allowed. </p><p>Also, you know, smut. </p><p>There's sort of a plot?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Ice

It's hotter than the devil's asscrack outside—absolutely sweltering. Daryl can tell without needing to look at the thermometer stuck up outside of the little house they're raiding that it's well over a hundred degrees, one of those rare summer days that used to make the weather men say things like “record-breaking” and “stay in the shade.” And even Daryl—Daryl who lived without the luxury of air conditioning his entire childhood, who spent almost every day of his life outside—is regretting his decision to wear jeans as the heat and the moisture in the air press in around his skin, making him feel heavy and sticky all over.

Hell if he wouldn't trade them in for shorts even if it meant dealing with ticks and chiggers and whatever else was hiding in all the tall grass he was constantly having to walk through.

The hunter is leaning against the side of the house, contemplating taking his buck knife and cutting the legs of his pants off when Aaron steps back outside, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He grabs the bottom of his button-up shirt, fanning his body with the fabric the best that he can. Daryl glances over and catches a glimpse of his stomach underneath and decides he isn't quite sure how he feels about it.

“God, it's even worse in there.”

“Any luck?” Daryl asks. Their main job is finding others, but they still take back whatever they can. Even with all the sustainability of Alexandria, they need more. They will always need more.

Aaron holds up a single dusty and dented can of Lima beans, and he shakes his head.

“It's been cleaned out.”

“Recently?” Daryl asks, always ready to follow a trail if there is one.

“Dust everywhere. There would have been a sign of them if it had been recent.”

Daryl grunts, disappointed that he's got sweat running down places he has never ever had sweat before, and all for nothing too.

“We can camp out here tonight,” Aaron says. “It's safe, and the door still locks.”

“I'd rather sleep in the car. At least we can turn the A/C on sometimes. This is ridiculous,” Daryl says, and the way Aaron is still fanning himself with his clothing tells Daryl that he wholeheartedly agrees. “Bastard upstairs sends us the damn living dead, and now he's trying to kill us with fire.”

“We could just go home,” Aaron says. They had been out over a week, and they hadn't even seen another soul. Everywhere they checked had been thoroughly cleaned out long before they even set foot there. A lot of the doors they had walked through were still hanging wide open on their hinges, with signs that animals had been in and out for months. Over a week, and all they have to show for their efforts is a damn can of Lima beans and some light bulbs.

Daryl wants to agree. He really really does. He wants to walk into the home he shares with Rick and Michonne and the kids. He wants to feel the air, set at a comfortable but still energy efficient 75 degrees, wash over his face and skin as soon as he steps through the door. He wants to wear jeans without them being damp, without being able to feel the little beads of sweat rolling from underneath the curve of his ass, down his thighs and over the backs of his knees.

“We ain't got nothin,” Daryl says, and it's very nearly true. “Waste of gas to come out here for what we've got.”

“Waste of us to stay out here in this heat when there's nothing to be found.”

And normally Daryl would keep arguing. Normally, he would push harder to stay, push harder to find  _something_ so when he rolls through the gates with Aaron, he'll feel like he's really doing something for the group.

But his hair is plastered to his forehead and every breath makes him feel like he's sucking the air out of the inside of an oven. And it's not like it was before. Before, he couldn't come back empty-handed. He couldn't, because he knew more than likely that what he brought would be the only thing the group had for a while. But it's not like that, he reminds himself. As long as he doesn't make a habit of it, Alexandria has enough right now to make it. They can wait for the next run, which will hopefully be more fruitful on both fronts.

“Screw it,” Daryl says. “But I'm putting my bike on top and riding in the air.”

“I don't blame you.”

The two of them head for the car, moving as slow as turtles trapped in molasses, Daryl already dreading the effort it'll take to get the bike on top of the car and the way he'll more than likely burn himself on the hot metal of the roof at least once before it's over.

About thirty yards from the car though, Daryl stops abruptly, placing his hand on Aaron's chest without a second thought. He shushes the younger man before he can even open his mouth, and then he brings his arm up slowly and points.

On the other side of the car, almost fully hidden from view, is a small buck, antlers tilted down while it gnaws on grass from the yard. He puts his hand up, letting Aaron know to stay still and quiet as he crouches and walks forward. He's in full hunter mode now, his stance deadly, like a wolf ready to lunge teeth-first at the neck of its prey.

Daryl raises his crossbow, already loaded in case he has cause to use it. Calculating everything in his head, half-skill and half-instinct, he fires off a bolt and nails the buck square in the head. He waits for it to fall and approaches, making sure he doesn't need to finish it off. He hates watching an animal suffer, even if it is dinner.

When he's sure it's dead, he turns back to Aaron, standing there watching him with his face completely blank. Daryl knows enough about masks to be able to tell when someone is wearing one, and Aaron has this one firmly plastered to his face. Maybe he isn't big on killing Bambi.

“Still got that tarp in the trunk?”

Aaron nods and steps forward, unlocking it, moving the few things inside to the backseat. Daryl spreads the blue tarp out in the trunk, making sure to fold it up the sides, creating a place for him to put the deer so that it doesn't get blood all over the place.

“Do you need help getting it in?” Aaron asks.

“Nah.” Daryl squats down so he can lift properly with his legs, and gathers the young buck in his arms, muscles bulging as he does. He sets it down gently on the tarp and tugs at the sides, making sure no blood is going to leak anywhere. He would hate to stink up the car seeing as it's already a piece of shit. 

* * *

Aaron watches him close the trunk, biceps flexing as he does so. And if he hadn't been entirely sure about his sexuality at age sixteen when he first pressed his lips against the mouth of Jake Rice, his first boyfriend and the highly closeted star quarterback of his high school football team (Go Dragons!), well, he would have been after watching Daryl in full hunter mode.

He hadn't seen that yet. He had seen Walker defense mode. He had seen Daryl as he normally presented himself, and he had seen him when he honestly had no idea he was being watched. The latter two were mostly the same, except that he had a little less tension in his shoulders and a little more expression on his face when he didn't think anyone could see him.

But Daryl crouching down low, his footsteps so quiet Aaron would have sworn he was floating if he couldn't see how the grass bent beneath him. That was a new one for him, and the way he moved was so primal and so dangerous that it made Aaron feel warm in a way that had nothing to do with the oppressive heat.

No, he wants him. He wants him like he has not wanted a man since before the apocalypse, since he woke up to find his bed empty, his lover in the front yard being eaten by the mailman.

Sure, he had looked. There are men around Alexandria that are easy enough on the eyes. Spencer Monroe is a pretty good specimen. And Rick, now that he's there. Glenn too really. But none of them make Aaron _want_. And he doubts any of them would really have him even if they did. His gaydar is pretty accurate.

Except were Daryl is concerned.

Daryl is like a book written in a foreign language and in braille. There is no reading him unless he personally finds you worthy of the translation, and even then he only gives you what he thinks you needed to know. 

Either way, Aaron definitely doesn't have the translation to the chapter on his sexuality, and he doesn't even have a clue what species of tree Daryl is, let alone if he's the right one to bark up.

“Do you feel better?” Aaron asks, watching Daryl maneuver the bike onto the car. He thinks about offering help, but he knows Daryl won't take it. The only way to help Daryl is to just start doing it and take advantage of the fact that he sometimes feels like it's too much trouble to tell you to stop. And so Aaron climbs up beside him and helps him get the chopper on top.

“Now that I got something to offer, yeah,” Daryl finally answers, sweat literally pouring down his forehead in little rivers.

“You always had something to offer,” Aaron says, because he knows enough from working together with Daryl and from his time watching the Atlanta group that Daryl is insecure with his place in the world, which is a damn shame because he was practically built for what it is now.

“You know what I mean,” Daryl says. “Not coming back empty-handed now.”

He passes Aaron the rope he's using so he can run through the window on his side of the car. Together they loop it over and under the roof of the car several times before Daryl finally ties it in a serious-looking knot on the inside.

“Oughta hold her,” he says, running his hand reverently over the mismatched body of the chopper.

“What's her name?” Aaron teases.

“Good question,” Daryl asks. “Darla, I reckon.”

“After you?”

“After my mother,” Daryl says. “Was named after her.” He doesn't say why or what happened to her or if she might still be alive or if he doesn't know. He just opens up the passenger side door and climbs inside.

But Aaron carefully takes and stores the information in his brain anyway like it's sacred, because when Daryl tells you something about himself, it is.

* * *

Daryl sits with the air vent pointed directly at his face, seat leaned back, eyes closed. He's reveling in the feeling of coolness washing over him. It takes probably half an hour, but he finally thinks he's probably stopped sweating by the time they've reached their first turn off on the path home.

“Can you take a look at the map and tell me what's next?” Aaron asks, his soft voice interrupting Daryl's thoughts.

Daryl opens his eyes and reaches between them for the map without looking. Aaron's hand rests on the gearshift, and the back of Daryl's knuckles brush the back of his gently in the search.

“Sorry,” Daryl grunts, finding the map with his fingers and pulling it up, unfolding it carefully.

The main route is highlighted in hot pink, and Daryl follows it with his fingers until he finds the light pencil marks they made earlier when they turned off of it.

“About a mile. Highway 289.” He folds the map so that he can see the parts he needs without having to unfold the whole thing, and then he sets it back between them, accidentally brushing the other man's hand again.

And for some reason, the second time makes him feel completely flustered. What if Aaron thinks he's trying to flirt with him like some hopeless teenage boy not sure of what the first move should be? What if Aaron thinks he wants to hold hands? What if Aaron tries to hold his hand thinking that's what he wants?

Daryl ponders on that for a minute, on what it would feel like to twine his fingers with Aaron's hands. They're softer than his own, Daryl imagines. He's pretty sure even. Maybe not as soft as some of the other Alexandrians who get to sit inside all day, but softer than Daryl's, whose hands are rough and calloused from loading his crossbow and climbing trees to get a better view of his surroundings. And from letting Judith chew on his fingers since she's started teething—the only time he's really cared much about washing his hands.

It'd probably feel nice, he decides. And then he lets it go, because Aaron's hand is still on the gearshift, resting there comfortably and with no indication that he was ever going to take Daryl's hand at all.

Why does that make him feel a little disappointed?

The turn signal clicks on, an old habit Aaron hasn't bothered with forgetting, and then he takes the left onto Highway 289, and Daryl glances down at the map to see where about their next turn is.

“Got a while,” he says, and Aaron nods, pushing the car up to around 85 with the knowledge that the road ahead of them is clear and open. The old beater shakes a little with the speed.

“So, I haven't taken my guess for the day,” he finally says. Daryl has slipped back against the seat and closed his eyes again, but he's listening.

“Go on,” he says. Aaron has been trying to guess what he did before the apocalypse, so much so that Daryl finally got irritated with him and limited his guesses to one a day. It reminds him a lot of that kid Beth used to date. Zach. He sees both of their faces in his mind. Two dead bodies that he feels at least a little responsible for. He fights the urge to sigh, choosing instead to exhale their ghosts smoothly and evenly.

“Okay, I've been thinking a lot about this,” Aaron says. He has already been through all the obvious occupations for Daryl, the ones that people always assume—mechanic, drug dealer, even taxidermist. Daryl gave him a little something for guessing professional hunter, because really, that was how he put food on his table most of the time, but truth was Daryl's formal occupation didn't fit any of the boxes people always tried to put him in. Of course, he had mostly sought out a job like that just to screw with people to begin with.

“Well?” he asks, because Aaron has fallen quiet, like he's still thinking about what to say. Daryl opens one eye to look at him, and finds Aaron has his lips twisted that special way they do when he's thinking. He doesn't have a guess for today at all. He just wants to break the silence.

“Bartender,” he finally says. Daryl has to admit that's an interesting idea. Him slinging drinks, trying to learn how to spin a liquor bottle without dropping it, learning how to make things that he gets to set on fire. Because let's face it, if he was going to tend a bar, he was going to do it with some pizazz.

“Nope,” Daryl says. And Aaron makes a little noise, the same one someone makes if they get a bad dice roll in Yahtzee. Disappointed, but barely.

“You ever think you might just tell me?” Aaron asks.

“Maybe someday,” Daryl says, and he wonders if Aaron will ever earn that level of trust. Rick is the only other person who knows, and Daryl promised him a pretty gruesome death if he ever shared the information. Carol is probably the only other person worthy of knowing, but Daryl still hasn't brought himself around to telling her.

It's funny how before the apocalypse he wanted everyone to know, to shove it in the face of their bullshit stereotypes about him and his family. His whole life he'd been looked at and judged before people even knew him, always “Oh, Will Dixon's son?” or “Oh, Merle Dixon's little brother?” His job had been a point of pride, a way to break free of what people expected. But now it was a secret. It contrasted with the image of Daryl Dixon, an image he felt had given him his new family (his real family) and his place as a formidable survivor.

* * *

Aaron stops the car outside the gates of Alexandria sometime in the late afternoon. He has a watch on his wrist, but the battery has been dead for a few days now, so instead he does the next best thing, just like he has been doing all week since it died.  
  
“What time is it?”  
  
Daryl leans forward and twists his head so that he gets an unobstructed view of the sun through the windshield. Aaron stares, watching the way his ear peeks out from his hair on the side he's leaning away from, admiring the exposed parts his neck, shaking off the thoughts of just leaning over and...  
  
“Somewhere between four and five,” Daryl says. “Closer to five.”  
  
Aaron has been trying to learn, and Daryl is a great teacher. It's just that Aaron has no spacial awareness whatsoever, and he can't tell how high the sun is in the sky because he can't measure the distance properly between it and the horizon, not on his own. It's just not a skill he'll ever really have down.  
  
The gate opens slowly and Aaron rolls in, stopping inside to hand over the guns he and Daryl have and to let the right people know they have a fresh deer that needs to be cooked and cured. He knows Daryl would do it and would probably rather do it, but it's not his job anymore.  
  
After unloading the deer, he drives slowly up the streets toward his home. It's always disorienting watching for kids and pets after spending a week out on the road. He wonders what it must be like for Daryl after actually having lived out there for so long, if Alexandria just feels like a really good dream.  
  
Parking the old beater in the driveway outside, he offers to help Daryl get the chopper down and put it back in his garage where it stays, right next to the other bike Daryl is trying to build out of the remaining parts.  
  
“That thing is staying up there until the sun goes down at least,” Daryl says, and he's already out and heading toward Aaron's door with his crossbow slung over his shoulder. “Want water. With ice. Actually no, screw that. Just want ice. Want to crawl inside your freezer actually. That alright?”  
  
“I'm not entirely sure what you want,” Aaron deadpans, and Daryl scoffs, already searching through the cabinets like he lives there. Aaron watches, happy that Daryl feels at home in his space. It has taken coaxing to get him to leave the circle of people he was so used to, and really Aaron is the only person outside the circle that Daryl interacts with, but it's something. Plus, Aaron has to admit he feels a little special that Daryl trusts him like this.  
  
Daryl holds up a glass crafted out of fine crystal, turning it over in his hands like he's studying some new creature he's found in the wild.  
  
“Here when I got here,” Aaron says. “A lot of it was. Whoever bought this place had already started moving in.”  
  
“Guess they didn't make it,” Daryl says.  
  
“No, I guess not.”  
  
“Nice taste in glasses though,” Daryl says, and he walks over to the freezer and opens it up, pulling out an ice tray and twisting it in his hands to loosen up the pieces. He gets as many of them as he can into the glass and then he grabs another, rubbing it across his forehead and down his neck.  
  
Aaron's pulse quickens a little, watching a melted water droplet side down the side of the archer's neck and soak into his collar. He wonders if Daryl realizes what he looks like doing that, if Daryl ever realizes what he looks like at all.  
  
Half the women in Alexandria have been eyeing him since he walked through the gate, even with the fine layer of filth he wears like a security blanket.  
  
Daryl walks over to the sink, still working the ice cube around on his skin, and fills up the glass with water, gulping at it until it's just ice again and then refilling it once more. It's been days since either of them have had water that wasn't just as hot in their mouths as the air outside.  
  
“Here,” Aaron says, finally tearing his eyes away from the obscene things Daryl is managing to do with only a piece of ice. He opens up the drawer next to the sink and pulls out a cloth and runs it under cold water before placing it gently on the back of Daryl's neck, letting his hand linger a little longer than necessary.  
  
To his surprise, and to the utter destruction of any part of him that was convinced he wasn't already crushing on Daryl Dixon like a hormonal teenager, Daryl reacts, sighing and practically nuzzling back into the cool cloth and his hand like a content house cat.  
  
“Feels good,” he says, drinking more water. “So hot.”  
  
The hunter's Adam's apple bobs with each swallow of cool liquid and Aaron can't think of anything better than, “so hot” himself, except that maybe he needs a glass of water too.   
  
He opens up the cabinet and grabs a plastic tumbler instead of one of the nice crystal glasses that he hardly ever touches. Using the rest of the ice in the tray still sitting on the counter, he joins Daryl by the sink, filling up his cup and taking a long drink.  
  
It's almost better than sex. Almost. Which is something he hasn't had in a _long_ time, not since before.  
  
He finds himself checking Daryl out in the corner of his vision, not daring to actually do so much as dart his eyes that way lest the hunter feel them on him. But even with them trained straight ahead, he can make out the large upper arms, muscular and taut from all his work with the bow. He can see one ear peaking out of Daryl's hair, like it's just as afraid to come out of its shell as the hunter is. He tries to make out what Daryl's ass might look like, but in those baggy jeans he can't even catch a hint of a butt. Oh well, he'll just have to imagine.  
  
He fills the ice tray back up and puts it in the freezer, his eyes falling on one of his many post-apocalyptic experiments in the process, one that's perfect for a day like this.  
  
“Hey, Daryl,” he says.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Would you like a popsicle?” he asks. “Been freezing the juice from all the canned stuff. Sometimes it works.”  
  
“Somethin' else cold,” he says. “Be great.”  
  
Aaron walks over and runs the little popsicle tray under some warm water for a moment, prying out one that seems to have held together pretty well. He's sure it has something to do with water content and syrup content and that he could figure it out if he really looked at the labels.  
  
“Peach,” he says, offering it up. “Maybe.”  
  
Daryl takes it and runs his tongue up the side, and it's so positively fucking sinful that he can look that way, and Aaron can't stop his breath from catching in his chest, nor can he stop Daryl from hearing it happen.  
  
“What?” Daryl asks before running the tip of the popsicle between his lips. And now Aaron is lost. Because Daryl eating a popsicle is the most erotic thing he's seen in a long time, and he couldn't describe the thing happening before him as anything other than porn if he wanted to.  
  
“Did it work?” he asks, pretty sure that some of the words that come out of his mouth don't sound exactly like words.  
  
“Cold and tastes like peaches,” Daryl says. A little trickle of juice dribbles down from the side of his lip and Aaron wants to lick it. He really really does. But he's not sure if even reaching out and wiping it away with his thumb would be a good idea, so he does nothing.  
  
And a second later, he's glad he doesn't, because Daryl's pretty pink tongue darts out and finds it and licks it off, and Aaron is definitely not thinking about peach juice when he watches it.  
  
“You not havin one?” Daryl asks. “Because I could probably eat the whole damn tray.”  
  
Aaron thinks about it, about just pulling up a chair and sitting there and watching Daryl eat a whole tray of popsicles in front of him all afternoon. But he's already half-hard in his pants and he knows it, so he turns away and pulls out one of the other popsicles and then puts the tray in the freezer. And then he has an idea.  
  
Maybe he can unlock the Daryl sexuality chapter without needing the translation after all.

* * *

Aaron strolls back over with a popsicle in his hand, and Daryl can smell the pineapple from where he stands, even with the taste of peaches prevalent in his mouth. It's so cold, and after days and days of heat, especially today, it's incredibly satisfying.  
  
“I hope you know how glad I am to have you here,” Aaron says. “Some of the other people I've tried out as recruiters just haven't really...”  
  
Daryl looks over and finds Aaron sucking on his popsicle, moving the tip of it slowly in and out of his mouth. And something in Daryl's belly shifts and catches fire.  
  
Aaron takes the popsicle out, swallowing the juices quickly before swirling his tongue around it once.  
  
“Haven't really fit,” he finishes. But Daryl isn't listening anymore. His own popsicle is still in his hand, half-forgotten as he watches Aaron run his tongue up his own, eyes locked on his.  
  
Daryl swallows.  
  
“Yeah,” he finally croaks out, hoping that makes sense with whatever Aaron just fucking said.  
  
“It's comfortable with you. You don't have to talk just to hear yourself, and I don't have to worry that you'll get me killed,” Aaron says, right before swirling his tongue around the top of his popsicle again.  
  
Daryl has to hold back the low whimper that threatens to happen in the back of his throat, which is now so incredibly tight he doesn't think he could even swallow another sip of water.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  


* * *

Aaron has to control himself, has to stop the part that wants to yelp in triumph, because Daryl is _watching_ him, his eyes trained on every movement like Aaron is an oasis that just sprang up out of nowhere in the middle of the desert and Daryl hasn't had a drink in days.  
  
He has to play this right. He has known men like Daryl, men who will run if you push them, men who have probably spent years pushing any thought they've ever had about another man aside with quick dismissal. He has to make the hunter want him enough that it'll win out against all of that. But if Daryl figures out what he's doing too soon, then it's over. And if he pushes Daryl too soon, well, it's over then too.  
  
But every part of him wants to yell, because _Daryl Dixon_ is watching him fellate a popsicle in his kitchen and he can't take his beautiful blue eyes off it.  
  
“They tried to send Spencer out with me,” he says, though he has a sneaking suspicion that it doesn't matter even a little what is coming out of his mouth right now, and the only reason he's even talking is so Daryl doesn't realize he's putting on a show for him, not yet at least. “He's not as bad as his brother was, not so much of a coward either, but he's doesn't have the subtlety you do. Couldn't sneak up on anyone.”  
  
Aaron takes a little more of the popsicle into his mouth than is necessary, mming quietly like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. He watches as Daryl licks his lips, probably not even realizing that he's doing it.  
  
Not yet, he tells himself, because most of him is screaming at him to just throw the damn popsicle in the sink, push Daryl up against his counter, and start assaulting those lips as soon as possible.  
  
But instead he runs his tongue all the way up one side and back down the other.  
  
Daryl's popsicle is still in his hand, melting, peach juice dripping over his fingers and onto the floor of the kitchen, and the idea that he could affect Daryl that much... _Daryl..._ The man who practically literally sleeps with one eye open. God, that thought just has Aaron's insides threatening to boil over like pasta on a stove.  
  
He can't be patient anymore.  
  
Slowly, he takes a step forward, ready to stop if Daryl shows any sign of moving away, but he doesn't, his feet frozen to the floor of the kitchen, eyes moving back and forth between Aaron's mouth and the frozen treat in his hand.  
  
Aaron reaches forward, again taking his time, just like Daryl trying to sneak up on that buck earlier today. And just like Daryl, Aaron has no intention of missing his target.  
  
He wraps his fingers around Daryl's wrist and slowly brings his hand up. The hunter lets him, his chest moving up and down a little too fast to be normal. Aaron licks his lips first and then he brings Daryl's hand to his mouth and starts lapping the peach juice off of his fingers.  
  
Daryl's breath hitches, coming out in a broken, ragged little stream of air. When Aaron finishes cleaning the juice off Daryl's hand, he takes both of their popsicles and drops them into the sink.  
  
“I'm going to kiss you now,” he says, because he feels like he should, like he has more of a chance of not being pushed away if Daryl is at least a little ready for it. He almost can't believe it when Daryl nods.  
  
Leaning forward, he presses his lips to the hunter, and if the nod was unbelievable, then what happens next must be a dream.

* * *

“I'm going to kiss you now.”  
  
The voice in the back of Daryl's head that has always sounded too much like his father screams, _NO_.  
  
But every other part of him is on fire and begging for Aaron to touch him like his skin is made of water and can somehow quell the flames. He can feel how hard he is in his jeans, pressing up against the denim, and he wonders if he's tenting them, but he doesn't dare look down in case that brings attention to it.  
  
And God, Daryl can't remember when the last time was that he wanted someone. Back at the quarry maybe, that time he'd accidentally run into Shane coming out of the RV shower with a towel around his waist? And that had been so fleeting and lasted about as long as it took him to remember that Shane was a fucking douchebag even if his abs did look like that.  
  
He nods, giving Aaron permission, because he does want. He fucking does. And Aaron isn't a douchebag, and he doesn't know what his abs look like exactly, but he's pretty sure he looks nice under his button-down short-sleeve no matter what.  
  
And when Aaron's lips find his, he can't help himself, and his hands fly up, one tangling in Aaron's hair and the other grasping the back of his neck like he has to hold him there otherwise he'll realize what he's doing and stop.  
  
Aaron moans quietly into the kiss, and Daryl swears he might fucking die at how good this is already. And he swears he might die twice when Aaron runs his tongue across his bottom lip.  
  
Daryl opens his mouth, letting Aaron in, the other man's tongue still cold from the frozen pineapple juice. The hunter marvels at how softly Aaron's kissing him while managing to imbue it with so much fucking desire. He tries to match it, tries to move his lips in that subtle way that seems to say _I want you_ wordlessly one million times. And then he needs to know. He has to know, so he pulls away, panting for breath.  
  
“When did, uh, how long have...”  
  
“How long have I wanted you?” Aaron asks. And Daryl watches his lips twist in that familiar look of concentration again. And then he almost regrets asking a question, because he can't wait for them to untwist and kiss him again.  
  
“I don't know,” Aaron says. “I always took an interest in you, and I'm not the only person in town who thinks you're easy on the eyes, but I think I just wanted you to feel like you belonged here, because I know what it's like to feel like you don't.” Aaron reaches out, like he's kind of afraid he'll spook him, and then runs his fingers through Daryl's hair. He blinks a little too long when he does it, and Daryl gets the feeling he's really enjoying this bit. “I don't know when it shifted from that to this, just that today has been...”  
  
“Yeah,” Daryl says quietly, and then only to himself because he realizes that he might have wanted this longer than just today but maybe he didn't know it, _me too._

Aaron leans back in, continuing the kiss from before, mouth finally back to what feels like a normal temperature for a mouth, not that Daryl has had much to compare it to.

He realizes he was wrong though. Nothing Aaron is doing is putting out the fire that feels like it's quickly consuming him. If anything, each brush of his lips is only fanning the flames. Daryl's erection is worse now, damn near painful, and he finds his hips moving forward on their own, eager to rut against something, anything to alleviate some of that feeling. Daryl can't remember the last time he was this hard. Maybe that night he was staying in that fleabag motel in that town where no one knew his name, when he had flipped through the channels and couldn't stop himself from accepting the $5.99 charge after he'd seen “Jocks and Blondes 2” on one of the adult stations.  
  
He hadn't bought it for the blondes. Not even remotely.  
  
And afterward, he'd been so ashamed that the most he'd let himself do is rut against a pillow until he came into the sheets, moving to the other side of the bed to avoid his shame.  
  
But that had been before, before the world had changed and he'd realized that maybe shit had never been as simple as the black and white moral rules he'd been raised to live by. Before he'd realized half the bullshit that had come out of his father's mouth (and by extension, his brother's) had been just that: bullshit.  
  
Before he'd met people like Tara and Aaron.  
  
He's got his body pressed against Aaron's before he even realizes it, slowly bucking his hips into the other man, and it feels so fucking good to have that friction, to feel the denim of his jeans rubbing against his dick.  
  
Aaron must feel his erection pressing against his body, because he reaches down between them and wraps his fingers around Daryl through the fabric of his pants, rubbing gently. It takes Daryl a second to realize the groan he's hearing is his own, because even when he had broken down and let Merle force some drugged out waif of a woman onto him, even when he had used one of those girls to try and feel like maybe he was normal, no one had touched him like this. With such gentleness and want. It was always impatient, like they were eager to get it over with and move on with their lives.  


* * *

Aaron has never heard anything more beautiful in his life than the moan that comes straight out of Daryl's mouth and into his own. He can feel it vibrate against his lips as he rubs Daryl through his jeans. And he finds himself so happy that he decided Rick's group was worth the trouble, so happy he thought Daryl was too.  
  
The hunter pulls away from him, tilting his head forward and resting his forehead against Aaron's so he can look down and watch what he's doing with his hand, watch him working him through the well-worn denim.  
  
And so Aaron takes it further, popping open the button and the zip and letting Daryl's loose pants slide down his thighs, filing away a mental note that makes him want to groan out loud: _Daryl Dixon doesn't wear underwear.  
  
_ “Is this what you want, Daryl?” he asks softly, wrapping his hand around Daryl's cock and stroking it lightly from base to tip.  
  
He can feel Daryl nodding, forehead rubbing against his. So he keeps going, running his hand up and down the other man's length, jerking him off right there in his kitchen, ignoring his own feelings of need which are currently straining against his khakis.  
  
“Are we.. Are you gonna want...” Daryl moans softly when Aaron gently palms over the head of his cock, losing his words in the process.  
  
“I won't do anything you don't want me to do,” Aaron says, and then he slides down to his knees because while the cold pineapple popsicle was satisfying, he has a feeling he'd rather have the taste of Daryl on his tongue more than anything.  
  
He looks up at Daryl and finds that he's spanned the small space between the counter top and the island bar, one hand on each, like he knows he's going to need the support in a minute. Aaron can't help the little swell of pride that comes with that view. Daryl thinks he's going to do a good job at this. _Daryl_.  
  
He stares at Daryl's cock for a moment, thinking about the hundreds of ways he could begin this, but the little bead of precum leaking from the tip is so inviting, so he leans forward and laps at it with his tongue, mming quietly at the hunter's taste.  
  
Above him, Daryl exhales sharply, and if that's the reward he gets for something so small, Aaron can't imagine how it'll go when he takes it further. He wraps his lips firmly around the spot right below the head of Daryl's cock and runs his tongue across the ridge, finding and licking at Daryl's frenulum.  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
Aaron glances up at Daryl and finds deep ocean eyes staring down at him, thick and heavy with pure undiluted lust.  
  
“Don't stop,” Daryl says, barely above a whisper, like he's afraid someone might hear him even though they're alone in Aaron's house.  
  
In response, Aaron takes as much of Daryl into his mouth as he can, which is a lot more than the next man probably could, he imagines, as he feels it sliding far past where it should be able to without eliciting a gag.  
  
He mmm's against Daryl's sensitive flesh, feels the sound vibrating on his own lips.  
  
“Jesus,” Daryl says. “Look, if you wanna.. I ain't gonna last like this.”  
  
Aaron pulls off, stroking Daryl to keep the momentum going. He's not sure what he wants. God, Daryl is offering him the opportunity to fuck him. He's basically saying that, right? _He_ could fuck _Daryl Dixon_.   
  
“What do _you_ want, Daryl?”  
  
“Huh?” Daryl asks, and it's like no one's ever offered him a choice in his entire life, not as far as sexual activities are concerned.  
  
“You. You're allowed to want things.”  
  
Daryl's brow furrows in a way that Aaron's never quite seen it move. He chews on his bottom lip, looking him in the eyes like he's searching for trickery.  
  
“Would you wanna... or would you want me to...?” he asks, and Aaron knows the question well, incomplete as it is.  
  
“Whatever you're comfortable with, Daryl,” he answers answers. “I guarantee you I enjoy it either way.” And the hunter's brow furrows again.  
  
“Think I'd want you to,” he says finally, nodding a little like he has to come to terms his own decision. “Wouldn't really know what I was doing if I...”  
  
“I think you'd do fantastically, but what you want is what I'll give you.”  
  
Daryl grunts in response, and then he nods again.  
  
“Yeah, still think you should.” Daryl looks down to where Aaron is still gently working him with his hand and then flicks his gaze back to his.  
  
Aaron stands up, finally letting go, and takes Daryl's mouth with his, this time harder, more fitting for a kiss that is about to lead into something bigger.  
  


* * *

“Come with me,” Aaron says, taking one of his hands. The hunter hitches his jeans up with the other, holding them in place as he walks up the stairs behind him.  
  
What is he doing? God, he'd never let himself even jerk off to a guy before, too afraid hell would open up right in front of him and swallow him down. Or that his dad would somehow come back from the grave and tear into him with a belt. But now he's walking up the stairs behind Aaron, knowing full well he just told him two seconds ago that he could fuck him up the ass.  
  
And he's excited? Nervous and scared as hell, sure, but excited too. His heart is hammering away like it never quite has in his life, and he knows that he'll be lucky if he lasts five minutes. Hell, five seconds if Aaron is half as good at sex as he is at blow jobs.  
  
“Shit,” he whispers quietly.  
  
“What?” Aaron glances back at him, still leading him up the staircase.  
  
“Nothin. Just processin.”  
  
“You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. I just want to make that as clear as I can.”  
  
“Wanna,” Daryl says. Because he does. God he fucking does. How many times has he imagined what it might feel like before shaking the thoughts away and trying to fill them with images of him sliding into some actress or model or that chick who used to work at the Stop-n-Go up the road that Merle would never shut the fuck up about?  
  
No. The world's over, and everyone who has ever made him feel like he couldn't go down that road is dead, and Daryl wants to fucking know what a dick feels like once and for all just in case he fucking dies tomorrow, which is statistically a lot more likely than it was back when he should've done this for the first time.   
  
“Okay,” Aaron says, leading him through an open door and into his bedroom. Daryl takes a second to look around. The space is very Aaron—clean and decorated with framed art and old signs it looks like he probably found out on the road.  
  
“Bed's awful clean for me to be layin on it,” Daryl says, looking down at the pristine fluffy white duvet cover.  
  
“I'm just as dirty as you are right now.” And Daryl can't help but think he means that in more ways than one.  
  
“Bed's awful clean for us to be layin on it,” Daryl corrects, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from turning up a little.  
  
“I suppose you have a point.” Aaron pulls off the duvet cover and plops it down on top of the carved wooden trunk under the window. The sheets underneath are just as white, and Daryl makes a little pfft noise.  
  
“I know, I know,” Aaron says. “Not the best color choice for the apocalypse.”  
  
Daryl strips off the rest, tossing them on top of the duvet cover. And now it's just a bare mattress, and that's the kind of bed he was used to sleeping in both during and before the dead started walking, and he has to admit it makes him feel more comfortable.  
  
“Happy?” Aaron asks, but he looks more amused than anything.  
  
“Mhm.” Daryl plops down on the bed, cradling his head on his arm instead of using one of the pillows. His jeans are still undone, exposing the lower part of his abdomen and his hip bones, and when he looks up he sees Aaron's eyes locked on that space.  
  
Daryl watches him tear his eyes away and turn around, opening the top drawer of his dresser and pulling out a small purple bottle, walking over and setting it down on the night stand before sliding onto the mattress beside him. Daryl looks over at it and can't help but think, _Oh, good.  
  
_ “You're sure about this?” Aaron asks, but his hand is already sliding back into the open space in Daryl's jeans and as soon as his fingers wrap around him again, he's more sure than he's ever been.  
  
“Please.”  
  
And Aaron's eyes snap to his like magnets. He takes the sides of Daryl's jeans, fingertips brushing over the skin of his hips, and he pulls them down and then all the way off of Daryl's feet, struggling a bit to get them over the shoes.  
  
“Would it be weird if I left your boots on?” Aaron asks, looking down at Daryl, bare-legged save his shoes.  
  
“Guess not,” Daryl says, because really he doesn't want to wait for the time it would take to unlace them anyway.  
  
“Good, because I can't lie to you, it's kind of working for me.”  
  
Daryl scoffs, but then he looks over and he can definitely see the outline of Aaron's erection through his khaki pants, and that's when he realizes he's been very rude.  
  
“Sorry,” he says. “Wasn't thinkin.” He reaches over and rubs it with his palm, trying to mirror the way that Aaron worked him through his jeans earlier. Aaron's head tips back, lips parting with a quiet moan.  
  
“That alright?”  
  
“Better than alright,” Aaron says, breathing already becoming less and less even. He lets Daryl continue for a bit, and then he grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away.  
  
“Sorry,” Daryl says, a reflex.  
  
“Don't be. I just can't wait anymore.” Aaron starts on the buttons of Daryl's shirt.  
  
“Leave it,” Daryl says, partially because he's not ready to have that conversation, partially because he can't wait anymore either.  
  
“Okay.” Aaron undoes his own buttons instead, shrugging off his button-up. His body is soft but toned, and Daryl wants it against him more than he's wanted anyone else's, even Jock #3 in that porno flick, who looked a lot like Shane now that Daryl thinks about it. Aaron looks down at himself, following the line of Daryl's sight. “Good enough?”  
  
In answer, Daryl reaches out and runs his fingers down Aaron's stomach, eliciting a little shiver from the other man.  
  
“Mhm.”  
  
Aaron reaches over for the little bottle of lube, and Daryl's heart skips a beat in anticipation of what it means.  
  
“Are-”  
  
“Ask me if I'm sure one more time, and I'm gonna do the job myself,” Daryl says, and Aaron's mouth jerks up at the corners. Daryl watches him squeeze a little lube onto his fingers, and then he realizes where they're going, and the synapses in his brain start firing almost too fast for him to keep up.  
  
_Oh_.  
  
Aaron reaches between Daryl's thighs, nudging them farther apart, and then his fingers make contact with the outer rim of Daryl's entrance. It's strange—Daryl decides pretty quickly on that descriptor--but it's not bad. Just new. Just different.  
  
“It helps if you try to relax,” Aaron says, one digit already pushing against him, trying to gain access.  
  
Daryl takes a deep breath and tries to make his body go boneless, but he can't. He's been tense his whole life, and he hasn't relaxed a lick since the first time he'd seen someone rip someone's flesh off with their teeth. That, and he's about to have sex with a man for the very first time, one with a smile that could melt steel. How the fuck is he supposed to relax?  
  
“Tryin.”  
  
Daryl closes his eyes and breathes even deeper, trying to focus on the sound of the birds outside the window. At some point in all that, he feels Aaron slide a finger fully inside of him. His eyes snap open and lock on Aaron's face, and he finds the other man's eyes pointed down between his legs. He knows that look. He's seen it dozens of times out on the road—clearing houses or trying to figure out a strategy to get around a herd because they can _see_ the damn Wal-Mart sign up ahead, and they've gotta try. It's the look Aaron gets when he's one hundred percent focused on a task, and knowing that he's the subject of that unfiltered concentration makes his cock give a little jump.  
  
_That_ doesn't go unnoticed. Aaron glances up at him.  
  
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, eyes glittering mischievously.  
  
“Think so.”  
  
“Only think?” Aaron asks, and then he smirks and curls his finger up and puts pressure somewhere inside and Daryl groans like a porn star.  
  
“What did you just...”  
  
“Would you like me to do it again?”  
  
“God yes.”  
  
So Aaron does, and Daryl can't hold back another moan. And then he's shaking his head a little.  
  
“No?” Aaron asks, pausing. “Want me to stop?”  
  
“Nah. Just thinking if that's only one finger, it's going to be over about three seconds after you get in there.”  
  
Aaron breaks into a brilliant smile, all teeth and bright blue eyes, and Daryl's chest constricts a little and he can't even believe someone who can smile like that would want to mess with someone like him.  
  
Aaron adds another finger, working them in and out and sometimes splaying them in a little V, loosening Daryl up and getting him ready. Sometimes he works them over that place and Daryl loses his cool all over again, but mostly he just focuses on making sure Daryl's body is ready for the main event. It's foreplay on a level Daryl has never experienced, so slow and careful that it's almost maddening because all he wants now is to see what it would feel like to have Aaron inside of him.  
  
“Do it,” he finally says, unable to take anymore of the slow buildup that started downstairs when Aaron twirled his tongue around the tip of a damn pineapple popsicle. “Don't care if you think I'm ready or not, just fucking do it. Can't wait any damn more.”  
  
“If that's what you want,” Aaron says, but he's already working open his khakis, and Daryl can see his breathing getting a little more ragged in the way his chest is moving.  
  
Daryl spreads his thighs a little wider, thinking that's answer enough, and he watches as Aaron slips out of the rest of his clothes and eases himself between them. His cock is already slick with lube and Daryl tries to place that in the timeline of events but can't, and he's left to assume it's some kind of damn gay magic trick.  
  
Aaron leans down and presses his lips to Daryl's, kissing him slowly and sensually as he guides his cock right up against his entrance and starts to ease himself in, making Daryl sigh into his mouth.  
  
It hurts a little being stretched like this, but not enough that he wants it to end, especially knowing what it's going to feel like when Aaron makes contact with whatever that place is inside of him that makes him groan like a cheap whore.  
  
“God, Daryl, you feel incredible,” Aaron says, pressing their foreheads together as he finishes sliding all the way in. He stays like that for a minute, and Daryl can feel his body adjusting to accommodate the new situation.  
  
Aaron waits about a minute more (if Daryl's internal clock is even still functioning properly in all of this), and then he slowly pulls out until only the tip remains, before plunging back in. And the angle must be a little different because this time Daryl can feel it, and fuck if he's not moaning again, lower and longer than he ever thought he would moan in his entire life.  
  
They go on like this for a while, Aaron slowly rolling his hips into Daryls, rocking in and out of him, his cock gently rubbing up against that sweet spot until Daryl thinks he might unravel like a ball of yarn tumbling down a flight of stairs.  
  
“Fuck,” Daryl says quietly. “Need more. Please.”  
  
Without argument, Aaron picks up the pace.  
  
“Tell me if it gets to be too much,” he says, and that's the only warning Daryl gets. They go from gentle rocking to the sounds of Aaron's body smacking against Daryl's in less than a minute, and when Aaron takes that momentum and changes the angle of his hips just slightly so, Daryl is yelling into the bedroom.  
  
“Ahhh fuck,” Daryl groans out, bringing one of his wrists up to his face to try and stifle the sound.  
  
“Don't,” Aaron says, pushing it away. “You'll have to be quiet plenty of times if we keep this up. Let me hear you today.”  
  
_If we keep this up._ Fuck, yes.  
  
Daryl lets his hand drop back to the bare mattress and closes his eyes, losing himself in the feeling of Aaron pounding into him. Above him, he can hear the almost inaudible grunts of effort coming out of the other man, and he knows without needing to look that Aaron's eyes are practically nailed shut, closed against everything else so he can focus fully on the task at hand.  
  
And the task at hand is making Daryl cum and, Goddamn, that is not far off if he keeps moving his hips like that.  
  
“Don't think I'm gonna last much longer,” Daryl says, because it's true. It's true, and it feels so fucking good and he's regretting every single year since puberty that he wasn't letting people do this to him.  
  
“Me neither,” Aaron says, panting out the words. He leans down and captures Daryl's lips again, grabbing the sides of his thighs for leverage so he can pump a little harder.   
  
And that change in angles and force has Daryl's everything reeling. He can hardly form a thought that isn't a string of curse words, let alone breathe.  
  
“Oh god.”  
  
He can feel everything hurtling toward some invisible finish line. He can feel his balls tightening, and the way his entire body is tensing up, readying itself for release.  
  
“Gonna...” And it's the only word he manages to get out, because it's the only word that he can think of. Everything else in his brain is electricity wrapped in fire, and he's pretty sure that if this is what dying feels like, he doesn't really mind so much.  
  
“Do it,” Aaron says, and the next thing Daryl knows, he's crying the dirtiest fucking words he knows out into Aaron's pristine bedroom, the sound of his climax echoing off the walls as he streaks Aaron's stomach with cum.  
  
The other man isn't far behind him either, burying his face in Daryl's neck and moaning loud against the sweat-laden skin directly below his hairline, his whole body twitching while he spills his load into Daryl's body.  
  
He stays like that after, panting against Daryl's skin, and Daryl can't help but run his hands up and down the younger man's back, fluttering his fingertips over the damp flesh.  
  
“Fuck,” Daryl says, finally breaking the silence.  
  
“I'm going to end up with a dirty mouth hanging around you all the time." Aaron's voice is tinged with amusement.  
  
“Wouldn't mind you having a dirty mouth,” Daryl says, and Aaron laughs quietly into his neck before gently sliding out of him and taking the space beside him. They're quiet some more, Daryl staring up at the ceiling fan and wishing just a little bit that it was on, but not enough to leave the bed and make it happen, not when Aaron is half-curled up against him like he is.  
  
“So, did you mean what you said?” Daryl asks, when his body has finally finished calming down and his breathing and pulse have fully returned to normal.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“You said something in there about keeping this up,” Daryl says, chewing on the skin around his thumbnail.  
  
“God, Daryl, I would love to.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“No but,” Aaron says.  
  
“'Cept mine,” Daryl retorts, and Aaron smiles.  
  
“Except yours,” he agrees. “And mine if you'd ever like to go there.”  
  
“Mm,” Daryl grunts. “Maybe.”  
  
Aaron leans up and kisses his forehead and then goes to get a towel to clean them off. And Daryl is glad it's navy blue and not white.  
  
“So,” he says, tossing the soiled towel aside and laying back down next to the hunter. “Are you ever going to tell me?”  
  
“Tell you what?”  
  
“What you did before,” Aaron says. “I figure if you can trust me with this, you can probably trust me with that.”  
  
Daryl looks over, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.  
  
“All this for the answer to a question?” he teases, but then he sighs, because his body is so content and Aaron's eyes are so blue, and he just knows he doesn't stand a chance right now. “Fine.”  
  
Aaron leans his head forward a little, like he's afraid if he misses the answer Daryl will never repeat it.  
  
“I was an art teacher. Elementary school.” Daryl thinks back to all the finger paintings and glitterized Polaroid pictures of family pets he used to look at every day, to the little smiles with missing teeth, to the “Mr. Dixon I maded this for you”s. He sighs, because he knows at least half of those faces aren't on this earth anymore. Then again, maybe that's for the best.  
  
“No,” Aaron says, shaking his head, and looking him up and down, trying to reconcile the man before him with the image of a teacher.  
  
“Ain't lied to you before,” Daryl says. “Aint gonna start now.”   
  
“That's really it then?”  
  
“Can ask Rick if you want. Only other person who knows.”  
  
“That explains why you're so good with the kids around here,” Aaron says, and Daryl grunts, nodding.  
  
“Guess so,” Daryl says. “Guess you'll have to find a new game to play on the road too. No more twenty questions.”  
  
Aaron smiles and leans forward, catching Daryl's lips with his own in a soft little kiss.  
  
“Oh, I have some ideas.”


End file.
